TRAPPED
She did not know how long she was thus carried along, she had lost all
notion of time and space, and for a few seconds tired nature,
mercifully, deprived her of consciousness.
When she once more realised her state, she felt that she was placed
with some degree of comfort upon a man’s coat, with her back resting
against a fragment of rock. The moon was hidden again behind some
clouds, and the darkness seemed in comparison more intense. The sea was
roaring some two hundred feet below her, and on looking all round she
could no longer see any vestige of the tiny glimmer of red light.
That the end of the journey had been reached, she gathered from the
fact that she heard rapid questions and answers spoken in a whisper
quite close to her.
“There are four men in there, citoyen; they are sitting by the fire,
and seem to be waiting quietly.”
“The hour?”
“Nearly two o’clock.”
“The tide?”
“Coming in quickly.”
“The schooner?”
“Obviously an English one, lying some three kilometres out. But we
cannot see her boat.”
“Have the men taken cover?”
“Yes, citoyen.”
“They will not blunder?”
“They will not stir until the tall Englishman comes, then they will
surround and overpower the five men.”
“Right. And the lady?”
“Still dazed, I fancy. She’s close beside you, citoyen.”
“And the Jew?”
“He’s gagged, and his legs strapped together. He cannot move or
scream.”
“Good. Then have your gun ready, in case you want it. Get close to the
hut and leave me to look after the lady.”
Desgas evidently obeyed, for Marguerite heard him creeping away along
the stony cliff, then she felt that a pair of warm, thin, talon-like
hands took hold of both her own, and held them in a grip of steel.
“Before that handkerchief is removed from your pretty mouth, fair
lady,” whispered Chauvelin close to her ear, “I think it right to give
you one small word of warning. What has procured me the honour of being
followed across the Channel by so charming a companion, I cannot, of
course, conceive, but, if I mistake not, the purpose of this flattering
attention is not one that would commend itself to my vanity, and I
think that I am right in surmising, moreover, that the first sound
which your pretty lips would utter, as soon as the cruel gag is
removed, would be one that would perhaps prove a warning to the cunning
fox, which I have been at such pains to track to his lair.”
He paused a moment, while the steel-like grasp seemed to tighten round
her wrist; then he resumed in the same hurried whisper:—
“Inside that hut, if again I am not mistaken, your brother, Armand St.
Just, waits with that traitor de Tournay, and two other men unknown to
you, for the arrival of the mysterious rescuer, whose identity has for
so long puzzled our Committee of Public Safety—the audacious Scarlet
Pimpernel. No doubt if you scream, if there is a scuffle here, if shots
are fired, it is more than likely that the same long legs that brought
this scarlet enigma here, will as quickly take him to some place of
safety. The purpose then, for which I have travelled all these miles,
will remain unaccomplished. On the other hand it only rests with
yourself that your brother—Armand—shall be free to go off with you
to-night if you like, to England, or any other place of safety.”
Marguerite could not utter a sound, as the handkerchief was wound very
tightly round her mouth, but Chauvelin was peering through the darkness
very closely into her face; no doubt too her hand gave a responsive
appeal to his last suggestion, for presently he continued:—
“What I want you to do to ensure Armand’s safety is a very simple
thing, dear lady.”
“What is it?” Marguerite’s hand seemed to convey to his, in response.
“To remain—on this spot, without uttering a sound, until I give you
leave to speak. Ah! but I think you will obey,” he added, with that
funny dry chuckle of his as Marguerite’s whole figure seemed to
stiffen, in defiance of this order, “for let me tell you that if you
scream, nay! if you utter one sound, or attempt to move from here, my
men—there are thirty of them about—will seize St. Just, de Tournay, and
their two friends, and shoot them here—by my orders—before your eyes.”
Marguerite had listened to her implacable enemy’s speech with
ever-increasing terror. Numbed with physical pain, she yet had
sufficient mental vitality in her to realise the full horror of this
terrible “either—or” he was once more putting before her; an
“either—or” ten thousand times more appalling and horrible, than the
one he had suggested to her that fatal night at the ball.
This time it meant that she should keep still, and allow the husband
she worshipped to walk unconsciously to his death, or that she should,
by trying to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might even be
unavailing, actually give the signal for her own brother’s death, and
that of three other unsuspecting men.
She could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost feel those keen, pale
eyes of his fixed maliciously upon her helpless form, and his hurried,
whispered words reached her ear, as the death-knell of her last faint,
lingering hope.
“Nay, fair lady,” he added urbanely, “you can have no interest in
anyone save in St. Just, and all you need do for his safety is to
remain where you are, and to keep silent. My men have strict orders to
spare him in every way. As for that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel, what
is he to you? Believe me, no warning from you could possibly save him.
And now dear lady, let me remove this unpleasant coercion, which has
been placed before your pretty mouth. You see I wish you to be
perfectly free, in the choice which you are about to make.”
Her thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her nerves paralyzed, her
body numb with pain, Marguerite sat there, in the darkness which
surrounded her as with a pall. From where she sat she could not see the
sea, but she heard the incessant mournful murmur of the incoming tide,
which spoke of her dead hopes, her lost love, the husband she had with
her own hand betrayed, and sent to his death.
Chauvelin removed the handkerchief from her mouth. She certainly did
not scream: at that moment, she had no strength to do anything but
barely to hold herself upright, and to force herself to think.
Oh! think! think! think! of what she should do. The minutes flew on; in
this awful stillness she could not tell how fast or how slowly; she
heard nothing, she saw nothing: she did not feel the sweet-smelling
autumn air, scented with the briny odour of the sea, she no longer
heard the murmur of the waves, the occasional rattling of a pebble, as
it rolled down some steep incline. More and more unreal did the whole
situation seem. It was impossible that she, Marguerite Blakeney, the
queen of London society, should actually be sitting here on this bit of
lonely coast, in the middle of the night, side by side with a most
bitter enemy: and oh! it was not possible that somewhere, not many
hundred feet away perhaps, from where she stood, the being she had once
despised, but who now, in every moment of this weird, dreamlike life,
became more and more dear—it was not possible that _he_ was
unconsciously, even now walking to his doom, whilst she did nothing to
save him.
Why did she not with unearthly screams, that would re-echo from one end
of the lonely beach to the other, send out a warning to him to desist,
to retrace his steps, for death lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or
twice the screams rose to her throat—as if by instinct: then, before
her eyes there stood the awful alternative: her brother and those three
men shot before her eyes, practically by her orders: she their
murderer.
Oh! that fiend in human shape, next to her, knew human—female—nature
well. He had played upon her feelings as a skilful musician plays upon
an instrument. He had gauged her very thoughts to a nicety.
She could not give that signal—for she was weak, and she was a woman.
How could she deliberately order Armand to be shot before her eyes, to
have his dear blood upon her head, he dying perhaps with a curse on
her, upon his lips. And little Suzanne’s father, too! he, an old man;
and the others!—oh! it was all too, too horrible.
Wait! wait! wait! how long? The early morning hours sped on, and yet it
was not dawn: the sea continued its incessant mournful murmur, the
autumnal breeze sighed gently in the night: the lonely beach was
silent, even as the grave.
Suddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a cheerful, strong voice
was heard singing “God save the King!”